


The Missing Years of Sherlock Holmes

by neutroncream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutroncream/pseuds/neutroncream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been some time since Sherlock plunged to his "death" at st Barts. Now, he has picked up his life and is ruling out Moriarty's network. The story starts in Istanbul, Turkey. Sherlock is solving cases again, and all seems good. But how well does he handle John's absence? And will he succeed in destroying all the threads from Moriarty's network?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Istanbul

“Mr Henslow, you are accused and have been found guilty of theft, blackmail and the attempted murder of Mrs Everson. You have been sentenced to fifteen years of prison confinement, of which two are on suspense. You are also required to repay the sum of one million British pounds to Mrs Everson. The court has made the unanimous decision to grant you three days’ liberty. You will be called for after then, and you will be taken to the Silivri Penitentiaries Campus, located in Istanbul, Turkey. Should you make an attempt on fleeing, your sentenced will be prolonged with six months. Case closed.”

A loud noise emerged from the court when everyone made their way to the exit. The judge, jury and lawyers gathered to discuss the case further while the witnesses tried their best to zigzag their way through the crowd. Minutes later the room was empty and everyone already outside, huddled under the pent because of the heavy storm rushing through the city. It was January, and for this time of year, it was singularly warm. Two men in long overcoats emerged from the main entrance. One of them was carrying a large sports bag. He was in his middle forties, with short grey hair already turning white. He dug a cigarette out of his pocket as he walked towards his car. The other man followed him, chatting about sports and women as if nothing had happened that day. He was in his late twenties, with short-ish dark brown hair and a colourful scarf carefully wrapped around his slender neck. They were chatting in Turkish. There was a short beep coming from the car as they both opened the doors, the grey-haired one dumping the bag in the boot and stepping behind the wheel.

They sat in the car for a while, watching, waiting, listening to any sign that they might be alone. After a few minutes they drove away. The car went into a narrow alleyway, where both men emerged, looked around, and approached one another. The grey-haired older man seemed to hesitate, and the brown-haired young man saw this. He reassured him and grabbed his hand. They both stood in silence, watching their hands explore the elasticity of the muscles in their fingers, twirling into one another then letting go again. They shared a look of relief and both men laughed. The grey-haired man stopped, looked at the other man and pulled him closer. They lingered on each other’s lips for a full minute, and then they kissed with a feverish passion, as if they had waited years for this moment. They pulled in closer, leaving next to no space between them. Their hands moved very quickly, cheeks, shoulders, arms, sides, waist, until both their arms found a comfortable spot on each other’s backs.  
After a while they pulled away from each other, again lingering on their lips. After a while, the grey-haired man whispered: “all right. Let’s go deliver the package.”

Sherlock watched the court room empty itself, sitting on his own at the row furthest away from the jury. _This had been a good one_ , he thought as the people who sat in these chairs not a minute ago were now rushing to return to their normal, boring, mundane lives. Henslow had been found guilty of everything he was accused of, with help from Sherlock, of course, but he failed to convince the DI in charge of the affaire Henslow was having with his secretary and his butcher. Simultaneously. Apparently, the loosened lower button of the secretary’s jacket and the creases on the butcher’s elbow weren’t enough for that. _Well, man cannot have everything he desires, for that renders him almighty_. He turned towards the exit. Half of the people were gone by now. He applauded himself mentally. Someone has to do it. Because clearly, he cannot go back to John-  
he cut himself off this train of thought. _That is not something I should be thinking about right now_ , he said to himself. _Stating facts does nothing but waste time one can inevitably use on more interesting subjects_. He had just finished the case of the most powerful man in Eastern Europe, clearly he has other things to ponder over. Who the man with the large top hat was, for example.  
He glanced him over. Creases in the lower part of the hat suggest it previously had a bow attached to it. His trousers fitted barely adequately to his short legs, and his feet were remarkably small. However, he was not fat, or strongly built. The smudge on his elbow was red but had faded by now, leaving a vague burgundy stain. His nose was long and thin, and his eyes a bright green. The jacket he was wearing had several patches on its dark blue velvet surface. There were traces of a flower inside his breast pocket. He walked very slowly towards the door, his back straight and his arms swinging slowly beside him, as is common with walking. His hair was short but it had not been that way for long. His chest was just a tiny bit chubby.  
Sherlock had of course figured him out in the second and a half that passed during this deduction. He, Mr Waterson, as Sherlock had observed when the man entered, had until not long ago been Ms Waterson. He had kept some of his clothes out of sentiment, but his top hat was only to emphasize his masculinity. He dressed very masculine already, so he must have had the change because he was already a man in his head. Only this afternoon had he decided to come out to his parents. He had a distracted look upon his face as he made his way through the crowd to his car. Four point six seconds later, he was gone. Sherlock was alone. _Well, at least that passed the time. A bit._ He left, getting his phone out of his jacket pocket as he stood up. He unlocked it. _Contacts. Recents. Valkorn, Vronchev, Vuccherini, Waterson, Watson. Harry, Janet, John. Mobile phone. Call._ He pressed the icon on his screen, but slid his thumb away from it after a while. He stood in silence as he saw the name of his best and only friend in black letters on the deafeningly bright screen. In five seconds, a boatload of ideas passed his mind. He could call and tell him he was sorry but alive. He could call and put on a silly voice as he tried to make John laugh, just to hear the funny sounds he makes when he does. He could leave a voicemail telling him that he’s alive without having to talk to him about it. He could send a text saying he’s alive and healthy and finished a very exciting case. He could-  
_No_. He knew very well that his own life, not to mention John’s life, would be in very grave danger if word had come out that he was alive. Most of all, he could not bear to see the reaction on the face of his friend as he stood face to face with him after a very, very long wait. He had suffered annoying colleagues, obsessed journalists, all the way down to faces of people whose lives he had ruined when he had so rarely failed, but this one face might just be the actual death of him.  
No, he could not contact him. As much as he did want to hear John’s voice, look him in the eyes, stand face to face with him, sit in his own chair across from him, solve intriguing cases with him and maybe even convince him to play Cluedo with him again, he could not. Not now. He might come to great harm if Sherlock did decide to phone him or reach him in any way. Reluctantly and with tears taking shape in the corners of his eyes, he tucked away his phone again. He walked towards the exit. He went out, straight out into the pouring rain, adjusted his scarf and wrapped himself in his coat, hugging it tightly. Today was not the day to succumb to feelings. He had work to do.  


	2. São Paulo

It’s been two months since the… incident. Sherlock tries not to think of it, but even with all the cases that present themselves, he cannot avoid the occasional wandering of his mind towards the subject. There are times when he regrets leaving, when he regrets not telling John, but most of the times he subdues these thoughts. Now, however, he was more occupied with trying to beat a renowned assassin at a game of poker. This provided him with an unusual advantage of not having to think about it. And with poker being a game of mostly reading the poker face of one’s opponent, this comes easy to him. He reads his way into his opponent, but not so much as to reveal his intentions. Thankfully, the man was not that stupid, so he provided an actual opportunity for Sherlock to put his talents to good use. He was surprisingly lean, and had a slightly tanned complexion. He was bald, and he wore a suit, but not in a way that suggests stereotypical drug dealers. Sherlock was relieved the man wasn’t so clichéd as to bring a briefcase. People never actually carry these briefcases here.  
“Here” was in a luxurious hotel, or all the luxury one can afford in São Paulo. This is a city bursting with criminal activity, but most of it is too trivial for Sherlock to consider worthwhile. Drug deals, killings, mugs, all the usual crimes. This one, though, was someone he had been silently tracking for a long time, but who only recently exposed himself a tiny bit. He let a murder go out of hand and left the police suspecting a murder where there was supposed to be none, as was his trademark. This immediately had Sherlock on his feet and on the plane towards the location of the crime. There, he discovered the criminal and saw an opportunity to drive him out and leave him to the only police officers who weren’t bought off. This required him to go out of his usual routine and go straight to playing poker. Two aces. _Well_ , Sherlock thought, _I have two pairs. I will win this, easily._  
“All in,” said the man, as he shoved all his chips onto the playing board. Sherlock looked at the chips. Well, he looked at the hands. Not a single tremor was moving through them. _He is a man not to be easily reckoned with_ , he thought. _Thank God I’m used to improbable people_. He concurred as he too shoved his chips to the middle of the table. He showed his cards. “Two pairs,” he said, “got you there.” The man grinned. “I know your game, mr Holmes. I know how it goes. You come here expecting to win from everyone, you expect me to fall to your feet like I’m some sort of beggar when you reveal my ‘plans’. You work it all out when you walk into the room, don’t you? You’re so quick, so vigilant, but there is insecurity in your behaviour.” He put down his cards, face down. Sherlock sighed quietly. _This was a show-off, he wants to make himself heard_. “No,” he said, leaning forwards and laying his hands on his cards, “there is on yours. You’re a show-off, and you know I am too. You’re trying to manipulate me into acknowledging your masculinity. Well, I. Am. Not. Your. Servant. You can ask any of your friends to say that you’re boss, but that’s no challenge for you, is it? No. You want it from me, because I’m way more well-known than you. If I would say you are the master, it would place you in such a position that it would frighten governments of several influential countries. But I can tell you that this little game, these cards, are just like us. Expose the cards, and you expose yourself. You think you have won, but incidentally, I have the best cards. Bad luck for you. You see, you have intellect, as well as instinct, but I have experience. I know how you work. I have done this many times before, so yes, I know how this goes. Take this from someone whose word you can trust, and just quit now. Quit while you can, because if your killings go further, there won’t be any more escaping from the police. I’m onto you, as are they. Well, the ones who haven’t been bought off at least. Quit now.”  
Sherlock reclined in his chair. _I have done well today. Don’t solve the murder, save the lives. The lives of the victims, but also the life of this man._ He took another look. The man held onto his façade of confidence. He looked satisfied with himself as he looked Sherlock straight in the eye. There was no sign of insecurity. He twirled the cards in his fingers, not showing Sherlock the contents. He looked one more time at the cards he was to expose. “Well, mr Holmes, this is very interesting. Very interesting indeed. You see, where I apparently lack in experience, you lack in social behaviour. If you had not, you had already known what was really going on.” He turned over the cards and laid them onto the table. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second. Two aces. “Bad luck for you,” the man said. “Now, will you tie yourself up or do you want us to do it?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. _No briefcase then, but they do have the tying up. How extraordinarily cliché._

His phone went off. Some cursing went on, but finally someone grabbed his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. He laughed. “Well well well,” a deep voice said, “looks like mr Consulting Detective has gotten himself a boyfriend.” People chuckled. Five, in total. Sherlock sighed. “Give it to me, please.” He knew full well who was calling. The phone was held to his ear. “Could you please call back later, I’m a bit tied up at the moment.” Satisfied with the minor attempt at humouring, he let it sink in. There was silence at the other end of the line. He sighed. “All right, yes I have been out for a couple of days. No, I’m fine. Yes, I will come back in a day or two. You know me, my days are my nights. I rest when my work rests. Just don’t worry about me.”  
The voice on the other end finally spoke. It sounded as if some strange effect was laid over it which brought the voice down at least one octave. “I know. But you know me. I’m outside. Forty seconds to dropdown.” There was a soft click as the conversation was ended. Sherlock was silent. More specifically, he was going through escape scenarios. During the time he was in São Paulo, he has “borrowed” several items found on the accidental crime scene, one of which was, clumsily, a ring. This, of course, bore the marks of time, but also of polishing. Moreover, on it were microscopic pieces of skin, for it was such a ring as tears off small bits of dead skin when removed. The poker game was for his own fun, really. Thirty-five seconds now. A man entered the small room, which was constructed entirely from concrete, by the sound of it, meaning he was in a basement. Another cliché. The man started interrogating him. “Who was that boy on the phone, then? Because to my friends he sounded like quite a man. Is this a plan of yours? Because if it is, I will have you killed and no one will know.” Not that intellectual, it would seem. Evidently this was another man, most likely an accomplice.  
Silence.  
Twenty-five seconds.  
“Oh, so this is your game, yes? You are silent so you won’t reveal anything and we have to keep guessing, yes? Well, let me clarify the situation because apparently you need a more explicit warning.” He slapped Sherlock across his covered face. He started shouting. Bad temper as well. “This is no game where you can sit and watch what we do and then walk away to tell the cops. This is the real world. So you better answer me or never answer anyone again.” There was the cocking of a handgun, a Beretta.  
Ten.  
“Well,” he said after consideration, “you’ve got me. I came here to expose your organization. I’m the great detective, and you’ve got me. It was all part of my plan. But now you’ve disturbed the silent waters of the sea of crimes, and now you will suffer the consequences.” Just as he finished, the door was kicked down and Sherlock threw himself to the ground. There were gunshots as people dropped themselves to safety. Sherlock was cut loose from the chair he had been sitting in, and the duvet was removed. His hands were untied. People shouted as his accomplice kept on shooting. “Don’t follow us. You will face us when you do.” They walked out of the basement. Sherlock rolled down his sleeves, put on his jacket and tidied his hair. Presently they were back on the streets of São Paulo. Sherlock, having memorized the road map, led his accomplice to his favourite restaurant in the city. He naturally assumed his partner was hungry, and both were silent along the way.  
“Do you normally require people helping you out?”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Molly.”  


	3. Reykjavik

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be aware that the captain has illuminated the seatbelt signs. Our final descent to Reykjavik will be smooth as there is little turbulence. We thank you for choosing our airline and look forward to seeing you in the future, and for people who have flight connections, we wish you a safe flight to your final destination.”

There was no time to pick up luggage. Quite frankly, he didn’t even have luggage checked in. He walked straight on to the exit, furiously tapping away on his phone. A man bumped into him, cursing in Icelandic, then walked on more quickly. Snapback, baggy trousers, backpack, sunglasses. A queer limp. Sweat drops all over his forehead. He won’t get past security. Quite frankly, hiding drugs in your shoes is too straightforward, especially when it is one’s first time carrying them. Sherlock felt his trouser pocket. At least the object inside it is safe. He swung on his coat in one fluid movement. The rain was audible despite the roof being 8…7…9… 8.2 metres high. Outside, a black Jaguar was ready for him, with a man in tailored suit opening its door for him. 62 years old. Divorced two... _no…_ three times. Got his hair cut this morning. Power complex. Exes are all half his age, at most. Suit has been repaired six times. Wives took all his money. Smells of cheap cologne. His “hello, sir” smells like rum. Bloodshot eyes. Tremor in his hands. _Mycroft’s really outdone himself this time_. Mother Teresa and the like. Sherlock got in the car.

NO TIME

Said the message on the screen of his phone. He grumbles. _Brilliant_. He dialled the number. A long beeping sound followed shortly after. A short –click- as the figure responded to his phone. “Yes.” The figure said.  “Yes I understand, but-“… “I have some unattended business to finish”… “Listen, I simply cannot comply to every damn order you give me. I have my own life!”… “my other life, obviously.”… “Why do you even want my help? You’re Sherlock Holmes, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” A short absence of the voice as gunshots introduce themselves to the conversation. “Shit.” Another short –click- sounded as the man hung up. Sherlock looked out of the car window, rolled it down, and threw his phone out of the car. _That won’t be of use to me anymore._ They were driving along the only road in Iceland, and it took a while before they were near the ‘crime scene’. Sherlock almost attempted at talking to someone other than to himself. However, as there was no one to match his intellect on earth (well, not _anymore_ ), let alone in this particular car, he refrained from it. _Brilliant, if only the landscape was interesting, but there are fields of lava everywhere. Boring._

An arduous hour passed before they reached the volcano, during which Sherlock tried to subdue the urge to shoot himself or the driver. Simultaneously. He dashed out of the car without waiting for his deafeningly slow driver to open the door. Two men and a woman were arguing. One of the men spotted Sherlock and ran over to him. Forty years old. Relatively small. Uses blonde hair dye. Clothes; jeans, sweater. V-neck. Traces from excessive medicine use. Good stamina. Quite like-   
no. Let’s not.   
The man was carrying a plastic bag with a bracelet in it. It looked like it belonged to a child. It was full of colourful pearls and beads. On it were small clumps of lava. Sherlock took the bag from the man, who started off immediately. “Sherlock Holmes, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. We found this lying here while we were doing research. Don’t know how it got here, but it did. Obviously. We didn’t find anything, it’s the most puzzling thing I have seen in my life-” Sherlock interrupted him. “yes, you can shut up now.” He walked on to the other two people. They were too busy to notice him. Suddenly, tears were falling down his cheeks. The woman turned towards him. Thirty-ish. Long, slender. Not dressed for the occasion. Stooping a bit. Glasses with one broken arm, temporarily fixed with tape. Messy and long hair. She looked at him, shocked. “S-sorry,” he said, “I just heard you found this bracelet, what happened? I have a daughter, she went off this morning with a bracelet that looked just like this.” Some sobbing to induce empathy. “Could you tell me? Please?”   
The woman hesitated. “…well, I’m sorry to inform you, but we are currently unable to figure out what happened. We will do our best to clear it up, but until then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, sir.”

Sherlock was already walking towards the spot where the bracelet was found. _Lava, lava, more lava. What’s this?_ A white stone lay on top of a small pile of stones. Sherlock started digging with his hands. The stones were too hot to really dig deep, but he dug far enough to find a queer noise. He held his ear close to the hole. A faint ticking. A countdown. _Really? Here? Well, it would set off the- ah_. He yelled across to the man he spoke to. “Get me a shovel!” He dug deeper and deeper, while the sound was more and more audible. He hit something. With his hands, he dug out the remaining stones and grabbed the object beneath. Two red sticks, about ten inches long, strapped to each other and a timer. Wires connected to and from the timer and the sticks. 1:38. The men and the woman stared at the bomb, in shock. “But, that doesn’t make sense!” Sherlock sighed. “That’s what makes a case truly interesting, now please go and be somewhere else.” They ran away. _Quite some folk, these Icelandic. Like little chickens, running around and positively blind to the obvious facts. They slow me down even more than Lestrade._ He studied the bomb. _Obvious, 1:33 minutes until the timer sets off the bomb and, consequently, the volcano. But why the bracelet?_ He turned the bomb around in his hands and noticed a string, leading from the device into the ground. He pulled it. _No use_. He dug with the shovel. Presently, a severed arm emerged. The cut was made with a sharp blade. High quality. Probably… fifteen inches long. The place of the cut at the elbow was sown shut with a leather-ish thread. Possibly human. Flesh turning blue. Nails purple. Blood-draining stopped by the sewing. One finger had a white mark across its bottom. _Sentiment_. The nails were very short. Hair on the arm already white. Well, what’s left of it. The hand was holding a note but it has already been turned into ash. He took a sample of the ash. 1:12. _Let’s see._ On top of the timer, there was a marking.

UMQRA

Queer. Someone had known of his case in Baskerville. This was all for him, then. _And possibly- no. Not him._ But who did this? Sherlock concentrated. Flashes of memories flew by. Istanbul. Being abducted by modern-day peasants. _No, no. Further._ Sneaking into the flat one more time before he left, for a long time. Jumping off St. Bart’s hospital. Sneaking onto the graveyard to look at his grave. John giving a speech. “You were the most human- human being-“ _FURTHER._ Solving his conflict with Moriarty. Solving the case of the Reichenbach falls. Solving the case of Baskerville. Having a last conversation with all the people concerned. _Got it._ But if that’s the marking, then… He tapped the letters.   
••—   — —   — — •—   •—•   •—  
The timer stopped. _Well that was a waste of my time. He could put in some effort next time._ He took the severed arm and walked back. The explaining business could happen later. The three people still asked him whether he had solved it and what it was. He walked on, pretending not to hear them. _I have more important business to attend to._ He asked for a phone. The number was still in his mind, of course. Not long after, a voice answered. “Henry Knight.” “Why the bomb, Henry.” Sherlock said, “what were you thinking, that I’m an idiot? Please stop boring me and find something more interesting to do. Finding a job, for example.” A muffled gasp. “how did you- oh never mind. Sherlock, I have been looking for you. I know you aren’t dead and, in fact, I don’t think anyone believes your story except your oh-so-lovely companion. Very brave, isn’t he?” Sherlock repressed his anger. “Don’t you **dare** talk about him like that. No, I’m not dead, and it’s vital for John to not know.” Henry laughed. “I just needed proof, Sherlock. Proof that you are still alive. I’m coming for you. Bewa-“ Sherlock ended the conversation. _Ungrateful idiot._ He put the phone in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “that was Henry Knight for you. Even after that case he decides to turn against us. People these days, have they nothing better to do than bore me?” He took the sample of the ash out of his pocket. “This ash is useless now, I solved it.” He tossed it away, and watched it roll down the slope of the volcano. “A volcano, though. Seriously? He knows as well as anyone that it’s the smaller cases that intrigue me. It would appear he has his power complex after all. Of course, you know he moved to Iceland after the case of the Hound. Couldn’t live with the memory anymore. Consulted therapists. Settled here. Got a girlfriend, even. Despite all that, he became apparently furious with us. Wanted revenge, planted a bomb. The guy sure has a temper.” He chuckled at his attempt of humour. “All in all dull. Glad you could be here to support me. Speaking of which, this arm is still very interesting to me. What do you make of it?”   
He passed on the severed arm and turned around, startled by the silent –thump- it made as it fell to the ground.   
“Oh.”


	4. Australia

Now what?

Sherlock asked himself that exact question as he found himself in the middle of what was the largest desert he had ever seen in real life. A short flight to Sydney, and then a Jeep into the country. He had received an intriguing letter a few days beforehand, telling him in no uncertain terms to meet there to discuss “an incident”. Sherlock recently found himself a bit too uncovered to his liking and was at first suspicious that this might be another nemesis. Of course, this only motivated him to go. However, he was inching closer to a possible discovery from John, and that would likely lead to dangerous circumstances for both them and the people they loved. Therefore, Sherlock decided to only accept the more obscure, distant, word-of-mouth cases less likely to be publicized. The sender of the letter had also included coordinates, where Sherlock was now standing. Only a few trees and bushes kept the landscape from appearing alien. Sherlock waited. And waited. And waited….

Where most people would fall asleep, he was too annoyed by the waiting to let it tire him. It made him even more active as he started pacing and cursing. He was in that bloody field, dressed in his bloody London-proof clothes while he suffered through 37*C. _Temperature is only a distraction_ , he thought to himself. And there he was warming himself up even more, allowing his body and mind to run free, with some strange consequences. A few minutes later, a passer-by would have described him as “some delirious nut who cannot handle the heat”. Sherlock was bent over a few plants, his back arched and his magnifying glass in his hand. He was trying to deduce facts from the flora around him. 8 inches high, green, narrow leaves. Pine tree? “well now, Piney,” Sherlock said. “Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?” He looked up. The sun was shining directly above him. “Well, it’s bedtime where I’m from. Do you know where I’m from? I’m from London, Baker Street to be precise…” just as he was about to begin a story about his annoying neighbours (who were annoying no matter how much mrs Hudson loved them), he saw someone standing at least two dozen metres away. He looked up, baffled. The man wore a jumper and jeans, and his short hair was neatly parted and seemed to flow around his head. His face had an innocent look to a normal person, but Sherlock saw a monstrous amount of pain.  
His eyes were dead.  
Sherlock looked away, and back. John was still standing there. Sherlock began to run, the sun beating him down with every step he took. _Must… get… closer_. John didn’t move a muscle, but somehow his eyes were alive, but they looked like he was being burned alive. Sherlock stopped right in front of him, breathless. “John,” he said. “John, I have missed you so much. Believe me, I wanted to contact you but I had to keep you safe. You know it was the only way, John.” He looked up. John listened, but his eyes told otherwise. He was furious. “How could you, Sherlock?” he said. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to hide the disgust that was eating him from the inside. Disgust of himself. “John, believe me, I- John?“ as Sherlock looked up again, his eyes in tears, John had disappeared. Sherlock cried. “Come back, John. COME BACK TO ME, JOHN.” With his power drained from his legs, he fell on his knees into the boiling sand. He screamed. “COME BACK TO ME, JOHN. COME BACK!” but to no avail. John was gone, and Sherlock knew it was his bloody fault. He cried and cried and it must have taken hours before he was calmed down but Sherlock looked at his watch and it had only taken five minutes. Sherlock knew he was hallucinating, but he couldn’t help the feeling that John was calling out to him, from wherever he was. Sherlock knew hallucinations, but this was not one of them. This was _real_. John was _real._ He always was. Always will be.

For the first time since he left John, he felt every atom of the consequences that decision had had.  
He tried to focus on the crime scene again, but the heat forbade him to go any further. He knew he had to get out, for his own safety, but his stubborn oblivious self ignored these feelings and continued investigating. It was as if he’d taken all the drugs he had taken before, but in one go. It was hell, but he had to go on. For the client. For the victim. For himself.  
For John.  
He slapped himself. _Stop it_. _You cannot let yourself be distracted by… him. You must do this, you must_. Sherlock investigated the ground. Curious. Partially buried beneath the sand, there laid a hook. The sand had already removed all the potential fingerprints on it. _Must have been here…. two days._ _Belonged to a man, 30-something years old, worked in the harbour but found himself in trouble more often than not. Old-fashioned manners. The kind one would run into in- oh._ Sherlock looked up, intrigued. _Hello, captain._ He smiled. This case proved the most interesting in a long time. He picked up the hook. _  
Where’s your ship, captain?_

Attached to the hook was a small note. “ _Find the Jolly Roger, or this will soon be your hand.”_ The handwriting doesn’t give away much, apart from that the writer was in a hurry and in trouble when they wrote this. The parchment is from New Zealand. The writer has a troubled past, but found a light. Sherlock looks closer. A lover. _How original_. But if this person does in fact have a ship, and the writer clearly loves fairy tales, then-  
Sherlock grabs his phone and looks up the story. _Peter Pan. Captain Hook. Jolly Roger._  
_What is this?_  
“A flag used to identify a ship about to attack” “closely associated with death” _oh no._ Sherlock looks up. He appeared surrounded by something he could not quite see. Was it himself? Or was there indeed something there? A ghost, perhaps?  
_This is not safe. It’s too warm, I cannot focus._ Sherlock started to walk back to where he arrived, the message still running through his head. _Jolly Roger. A hook as hand. Parchment from New Zealand. Troubled past. Found a lover._ One thing stuck out. As he walked on, he went over all the possibilities, erasing them one by one until there were only four left. All four of them were almost entirely different, but they all shared two elements. Sherlock was in danger, and he had to hurry. Focusing on the next destination, Sherlock walked on, hook in his hand, his dark curly hair and long dark coat bouncing through the breeze his movements created.

_Where’s your ship, captain?_


End file.
